Hospital Interludes
by LovelyTomorrow
Summary: "The room smelled like sanitizer.  Everything in the hospital smelled like sanitizer.  I'd been surrounded by it for so long, I worried that I would forget how normal, unclean air smelled."  Moments throughout the series in the hospital.
1. Imaginary Brian

AN: Hello, all! This is my first QAF fic that I've posted! I would love to hear what you think of it! Thanks for reading!

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><p>I tried not to listen.<p>

There wasn't much in my room to distract me. I studied the blank television screen, my rounded, dark reflection peering back at me. I looked dead, frankly. My skin was almost as white as the new bandage drawn across my forehead, and my eyes were sunken in and heavy from the last few restless nights. Since I was no longer critical, they'd let me wear my own clothes. Mom had brought me a few t-shirts and pairs of sweats to wear while lazing around the hospital corridor—mostly grays and browns, nothing all that extravagant, certainly nothing I'd have picked out to wear in public, but they were comfortable and smelled like home.

He kept talking. I tried not to listen.

I looked down at my hand. It looked so strange, all gnarled and mangled like some kind of claw. I needed to remind myself that it belonged to me. It looked so alien; it was hard to fully realize. I told myself over and over again: this is your hand; this is your hand—what you're looking at there—that's your hand.

"I know you didn't want this to happen, Justin," I heard and inhaled quickly. No, don't listen, I reminded myself. I exhaled slowly.

The blanket on my hospital bed was really thin. It was beige and rough and barely came to my waist. I didn't really need a blanket. Generally, I fell asleep sweating. I was vaguely aware of summer's arrival outside the walls of the hospital. I'd missed graduation while I was in the coma, and now a good portion of summer vacation was gone. It had been four weeks since prom, though I only remembered the last two, and they felt like decades.

"It's not your fault," he was saying, "You're just young. You let yourself be influenced by these people."

I blinked. Lindsey and Melanie were here yesterday with Gus. I think they've all formed a rotation. Deb and Vic come one day, then Emmett and Ted, then Daphne and her friends, then Lindsey and Melanie with Gus. And then a wild card day—sometimes no one comes—sometimes they come in odd groups. Deb and Emmett, Ted and Mel—strange configurations of people I'd never have volunteered to spend long periods of time awkwardly conversing with.

My mother is always here. She knows all the hospital staff by name, and only leaves when she absolutely has to for work. I convinced her to sleep at home, because Molly was starting to get freaked out when she didn't come home. Really, there's nothing she can do. The doctors say the rest of the work is up to me. It's useless for her to be here.

"Brian doesn't care about you, Justin."

Shit.

We learned in psychology that every word has a certain threshold in your mind, and the more you hear a word, the lower the threshold becomes and it's harder not to hear. It's called the Cocktail Party Effect—as in, when you're at a cocktail party and there are a bunch of conversations going on around you, you can't really hear anything that anyone is saying. But if someone says your name—or your friend's name—or mentions something you're interested in—you're more likely to hear it, because it has a lower threshold. Your brain can't help but hear it.

Brian.

"He hasn't even tried to see you," he said, "He hasn't even bothered to see if you're alive." My father was here on one of the wildcard days. He said he just wanted to talk to me. He said he was worried about me. My mother was showing someone a house.

I concentrated on breathing, taking air in slowly through my nose. I let it fill my lungs to capacity and held it. The room smelled like sanitizer. Everything in the hospital smelled like sanitizer. I'd been surrounded by it for so long, I worried that I would forget how normal, unclean air smelled. I held my breath until I started to get dizzy and bid a silent farewell to the brain cells I'd just murdered. My exhale was long and slow, all through my nose.

"Justin, please," he said, "Do you remember that time I took you to that amusement park?"

The oddness of the question made me look up. I did not meet his eyes; I hadn't met them since I'd told him I was leaving home. I just stared at the wall behind him, where they'd hung the helpful pain litmus scale. The simplistic, cartoon faces on it mocked me, but they were preferable to his.

"You remember? You must have been fourteen or fifteen? Molly was really little. You remember, don't you?" he asked.

He was sitting in the light beige pseudo-leather upholstered chair by the door. There was another one right next to my bed, a deep brown one that Lindsey had pulled up, so that I could see Gus in her arms. He smiled when he saw me. She says he knows who I am—knows my face, knows my voice. Babies can distinguish between familiar and unfamiliar voices. Melanie says it's a survival thing, so that they can tell when they are in danger. When they are around unfamiliar people, they cry. That way they'll stay safe.

My father continued, "You refused to go on the roller coasters, remember? I told you over and over again that you would love them, but you were too scared."

I remembered. He'd told me to be a man.

"But eventually, I convinced you to try one of them. And you loved it!" he beamed, "You wanted to ride it again and again."

And I did. I rode it over and over again, feeling every tilt and acceleration, learning to trust the freefalling feeling and ignore the lurching in my gut. I was exhilarated; he was proud of me.

"And now," he said. I inwardly cringed; however he had manipulated the two situations to be at all similar was going to leave a bad taste in my mouth. I could feel it. "Now, you're convinced that you want to live your life in a certain kind of way."

I almost smiled.

"You've found these people—this community—and they've accepted you into their group, and you feel good about that. And that's natural. It's normal. We all want to feel accepted," he said. I wondered if he had been talking to a shrink. Or a social worker. Or a priest. "But this world that they've shown you—it's not really you, Justin. Boys like you don't…" He let the pause hang in the air for me to fill in. I could only guess: _do drugs? Fuck men? Get bashed in the head with a baseball bat?_ "You're still so young, Justin. And there's no way you really know who you are. Not yet. You've still got time."

I closed my eyes, tight.

The door opened with a flourish, and Brian stood looking calm and gorgeous as always. He wore dark blue jeans and a crisp black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He smiled tightly at me before sending a glare over to my father. With two big steps he was by the side of my bed, and he put both his hands on the sides of my face and pulled me up forcefully but gently to kiss him. I could taste his mouth, tobacco and mint and whiskey and Brian, so tangible in certain moments but impossibly illusive in others. Our noses smashed together, and I brought my good hand up to grab onto the back of his head. After a moment, he broke away from me but kept my forehead against his. He smiled, goofy and wide and contagious. My face broke out in my own full teeth-baring grin. I heard him give a low chuckle and then whisper loud enough for my father to hear, "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was fucking unbelievable."

I laughed, and we turned our heads together to look at my shocked father's face.

Brian sighed against me. "So then, _sir_, why don't you go ahead and fuck off?"

The machine to my right beeped, and I opened my eyes.

It beeped all the time. That was how they all knew my heart was still beating, which was how they knew I was alive. My father continued, "Like with the rollercoaster; you were so sure you wouldn't like it, but you really didn't know."

The door was still closed, of course. Brian wasn't coming.

Lindsey said he was really busy. Deb said she was sure he would come by eventually. Ted and Emmett said he had been at Babylon every, single night of my stay. But it helped to think that he might stop by one day, unceremoniously, of course—as if everything was simple and normal and it was foolish of me to think anything different.

I fell asleep every night imagining his body against mine, feeling his breath on the back of my neck, his arm draped across my stomach. I thought about what he would tell me if he was here; I pictured him, arms crossed in the corner, snickering and laughing at the doctors and nurses as they asked me questions and prodded at me every morning. My imaginary Brian had put his whole life on hold to stay in my room all day, every day. He'd told Ryder to fuck off and insisted that the nurses let him stay after visitation hours. He watched TV with me; he read over my shoulder; he sat next to me while I ate, making me swallow every last bite.

"Isn't it possible that this whole lifestyle choice is like that?" my father asked me. "You're so young. Isn't it possible?"

I swallowed, concentrating on the movement of the muscles in my throat, willing myself not to hear a single word.

He sighed, frustrated and exhausted by my lack of elasticity of thought. "I just miss you," he said, and I felt my heart speed up for a second. "I miss talking to you, hearing about your day."

If I'd thought it would help, I might have mentioned that it was perfectly possible for him to talk to me if he wanted to. If he wanted to hear about my day—sleep, physical therapy, visits from queers and lesbians, repeat—I would tell him. He had opted out of that sort of interaction. He had made it clear that my daily activities were of no interest to him.

"And it's clear that this kind of life is not good for you," he said. "But you had flaunt yourself; you had to tempt fate."

'Fate' was an interesting way to put it.

"We could have lost you, you know," he reminded me. "And you would have left this earth with all this on your soul, and who knows where you might have ended up."

It was hard not to smile at that, but I had the stoicism down to a science. It was all about muscle power, keeping your movements controlled, not letting them succumb to the wills of automatic processing.

He sighed again. I was making him angry. If I could make him yell at me the nurses would come in, and ask him to leave. I was not supposed to be stressed; this was very important to my recovery. "Well, I guess you're just too stubborn to even consider what I'm saying," he said. "But maybe you'll think about it later—maybe when you're older."

He stood up, and I allowed myself an inward sigh. He'd been here for the better part of an hour, and my powers of distraction were beginning to wane. I looked down at my lap when he moved to the door. I pulled my lips in tight to prevent the joy of his departure from showing.

"Oh," he said, hand on the doorknob. "Your mother told me about your hand."

Fuck. My fucking hand. My fucking useless, mangled claw that the doctors said would never be able to draw or paint or maybe even sign my name again. They'd told me three days before.

"If you're willing to reconsider Dartmouth," he said, "I'd be more than happy to pay your way through." When I didn't fawn over him in gratitude, he nodded once and opened the door. His mouth tightened, and he looked right at me. "You know, Justin, you could do a lot worse. I hope you know that." And he was gone.

I closed my eyes. _Yeah, love you, too, Pops._

I groaned with joy and exhaustion and frustration and pain and a million other things while I lay back down in my bed. They'd given me far too many pillows—three or four—and the nurses always insisted on fluffing them for me, like I was staying in a five star hotel. I was lucky to have the room to myself. When I'd first woken up, there was a middle-aged woman in the bed next to mine, on the other side of the room. She'd fallen and hit the back of her head on the concrete stairs leading up to her front door. She'd had surgery like me, but was allowed to go home after a few days. Her husband was always with her, and I imagined Brian being sickened by the teddy bears and balloons he bought for her.

Someone knocked on my door, and I considered pretending not to hear, but it could have been my mother, and I didn't want her to worry that I'd somehow slipped back into the world of comatose sleep. "Come in," I called, coughing out my voice. It hadn't been used for a while.

"Hey there." An intern, Tanya, poked her head in. She was younger than most of nurses and much younger than the doctors. I hadn't asked, but she seemed to be only a few years older than me. She had straight deep red hair and freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. Her tiny frame made her scrubs look huge as they billowed at her ankles. She smiled at me. "You okay?"

"I'm fabulous," I said, giving her my very best shit-eating grin.

She laughed quietly and closed the door behind her. "You mind if I hide out in here for a second?"

"Not at all," I said, "But your dying patients probably do."

She rolled her eyes. "No one's dying. At least not right now. Right now, I'm supposed to be filling out order forms for my attending. Busy work."

"But you want to play hookie?" I asked.

"With my very favorite, cheerful sunbeam of a patient," she said.

I laughed. "Fuck you." She'd heard Deb call me Sunshine more than a few times and noted how inaccurate the name was to my current melancholy attitude.

She sat in the chair next to my bed. "So," she said, putting her feet up on the edge of my cot. "That was your dad, right?"

I nodded. "How'd you guess?"

"I didn't," she said, "I recognized him from the night you were admitted. Haven't seen him much since then, though."

"Nope," I said, "And I wouldn't get your hopes up about seeing him again."

"Bad blood?"

I shrugged. "You could say that."

"Well," she said, "I never knew my dad, so I can tell you from experience that they're not essential personnel."

I smiled appreciatively. "Here, here."

"What's his problem?" she asked.

"Oh," I tried to think of a way not to oversimplify things, "He just doesn't agree with some of my recent decisions."

"Huh," she said.

"He thinks I should consider other opportunities," I said and smiled at the suspicious look on her face. "Straighter opportunities," I clarified.

"Ah," she nodded in understanding, "Asshole."

"Yeah," I conceded.

"But your mom seems nice," she reminded me.

"Yeah, she's great," I agreed, "She's been really good about everything."

"Good mom," she said, smiling. "Tolerating the likes of you." I smiled back. Tanya took her feet down and ran a hand through her hair. "And you seem to have lots of friends."

"Yeah, yeah," I said, "Please, don't pity me or anything. I'm just a kid with a bashed in head. It could be worse."

"You could have to fill out order forms," she said, pointing to me playfully.

"I could."

"And then you would really know what pain feels like."

Brian would like Tanya, I decided. Had he been there, he might have joined in our conversation or not, but he would have mentioned her to me offhandedly later in that way that he mentioned Daphne—in that way that means he'd felt some kind of emotion, and it's leaking out of him accidentally.

"Hey," Tanya said, standing and then sitting on the edge of my bed, facing me. "You mind if I ask you something?"

"I do, actually," I said, "I mind a lot. In fact, I'm a little uncomfortable that you even asked to ask. You should really know better. I'm going to have to tell the attending and have you fired."

"Okay, cool," she said, "So then, who's Brian?"

The question took me off guard a bit. I know I hadn't mentioned Brian to anyone from the hospital since the first day, when I asked where he was and the doctors all looked at me like I'd grown another appendage. My mother had told me that he was all right, and I had all but stopped asking my friends. They had resolved to give me only vague, pacifying answers about his whereabouts.

"Shit," Tanya said off my face. "If that's too personal or whatever, don't worry about it. I was just curious."

"No," I said, "That's okay. It's just," I smiled, "It's a complicated question."

"Ooh," she smirked. "Juicy?"

I laughed. "Juicy, yes. But also incredibly frustrating. And gorgeous. And emotionally stunted. And erratic."

"So, complicated, then?" she smiled.

"Complicated," I repeated. "And probably not worth mentioning. I'm never going to see him again."

"Why not?" she asked, looking like I'd told her Santa Claus did not exist.

"Well," I sighed. "The thing about Brian is…he doesn't like to admit that he feels anything, and he closes himself off to everyone and everything that could make him vulnerable and cause him pain."

"Shit," she said.

"Yeah," I agreed. "But I was close—I'd gotten close. I don't know how I did it, but I worked my way in, and I think he started to actually care about me, as much as he cares about anyone."

"Wow," she said appreciatively.

I imagined Brian scoffing in the corner.

"But then," I looked down, "He finally cared about someone and this happened."

She looked down at my hand, then back up at me. "But this has nothing to do with him."

I nodded and shrugged. "I'm thinking he doesn't see it that way. Or he feels like I'm not worth the trouble. Or I overestimated the whole thing, and he really just doesn't care."

"Have you talked to him about it?" she asked.

I laughed. "It's been almost a year, and I haven't really _talked_ to him about anything. His dad died, and he didn't talk about it. He had to give up his son, and he didn't talk about it."

"Not a talker," she noted.

"Yeah, and even if he was," I shrugged, "I haven't seen him since I've been here."

"Fuck," she said, sneering with sympathy.

"I told you it was juicy," I said, trying to lighten the mood.

She nodded then narrowed her eyes at me. "You'll see him again."

I smiled. "Not if he has anything to say about it."

Tanya considered this then raised an eyebrow. 'Then don't give him a say in it."

"I can't make him come see me," I reminded her.

"No," she conceded, "But you won't be in here forever. Would you know where to find him?" she asked.

"Sure," I said. "But if he doesn't want to see me—"

"He doesn't sound like he's all that in tune with what he wants," Tanya countered, "He's probably upset. You know you've got your post-traumatic stress stuff; I'm sure he does too. He just doesn't have the physical stuff that goes with it. I mean, he was there, right? That night?"

"Apparently," I said. It still wasn't perfectly clear to me what had happened, since I couldn't remember any of it. All I knew was from Daphne and my mother's second-hand accounts.

"Then I'm sure he's freaked as shit," she said.

I smiled. "Is that the technical term, doctor?"

"Yeah," she said, shooting me a firm middle finger. "He's technically _freaked as shit_, you little asshole."

I laughed. "You know, I gotta say, your bedside manner could use some work."

"Yeah? Write the hospital a letter, chump," she said smiling.

"Oh, I plan to," I assured her. "The interns here are very forward and disrespectful of the patient's privacy. Also, they advise stalking disinterested former romantic partners."

She giggled. "Nice. Really nice."

"And they don't do their paperwork," I reminded her.

"Nope," she agreed. "Never." She twisted her mouth at me.

I shrugged. "What?"

"What does he look like?" she asked, leaning forward and almost whispering.

I smirked. "What does who look like?"

"Who do you think?" she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

I shrugged innocently. "There are billions of men in the world, Tanya. I think it's pretty presumptuous of you to think I should be able to pinpoint which one in particular you're referring to." I smiled wide.

"Okay, fine," she said, "Don't tell me. I bet he's better in my head anyway."

I scoffed. "He's not."

She rolled her eyes. "_Who's_ not?" she mocked me.

He smiled in the corner. Oh, yes, he'd like her.

"Okay," I said. "So, he's older than me. Like, late twenties." Brian liked that. "Dark brown hair, short and wispy and unkempt but in a very deliberate way."

"I'm in love already," she said.

"Strong brow, deep brown eyes, perfectly straight nose, very defined chin," I listed off his features as I saw them, amused with my description, in the corner. "And his lips," I had to stop. Tanya smiled wide. "They may, in fact, be indescribable, but I'll try. Think full but not big…and soft but still demanding—still hungry."

Tanya shook her head. "God."

"No, actually," I said smiling, "But I made that mistake, too, at first. Very understandable."

"Fuck you," she said, still shaking her head. "Bet he's got a hot bod, too." I just looked at her. "I need to meet this guy!"

I shook my head. "Good luck."

"He'll come see you," she said, definitively. "I'm sure of it." The machine to my right beeped in the silence that followed. Tanya stood up and looked at it, the patterns of my heart making a wave of green on the black screen. "I think you're close to out of here."

"My hand doesn't work," I reminded her, though amended the protest in my head. My hand was never going to work.

"It will," she said.

"You are infuriatingly optimistic," I said, shaking my head, "I'm going to come back here in a few years to make sure you've lost all hope in humanity like a good doctor should."

"Hey," she said, her voice turning serious, "When you leave this hospital, you stay out, okay? I never want to see you here again."

I shrugged. "I'll do my very best not to get re-bashed in the head."

"Good," she said. "And when you and Brian are happily married with babies and a mansion, I'll come see _you_ to rub all your joy in your pessimistic, doom and gloom face."

I laughed. "Deal."

Her pager went off with three loud beeps, making both of us jump. She smiled at me and took it off the waist of her pants. "Oh, shit."

"Your attending?" I asked.

"No, it's a 9-1-1," she said and sighed with an odd mix of sadness and excitement. I shook my head. Doctors. "I gotta go. If I get on a surgery, I won't have to do paperwork for the rest of the day."

"Nice," I said appreciatively, "Well, go on, then. Get a good, long, complicated one."

She smiled and moved to the door. "He'll come see you, Justin," she said.

I rolled my eyes. "Please go cut people open. You're getting dangerously close to pity and condescension."

She pointed to me. "See you tomorrow, big guy."

I gave her a little mock salute with my good hand as she left, closing the door behind her. Brian nodded in approval of the discourse, and I closed my eyes.

The only sound in the room was the beeping of the heart monitor. It seemed slower than I would have expected; I'd gotten used to my heart beating quickly over the past few months—from the excitement and the sex and, of course, from the drugs as they mixed in my mind with the demanding pounding of the music and the harsh, striking lights. That was where Brian really was. That was where Brian belonged—engulfed in sweat and booze and glitter and the admiration of every man within sight of him. He didn't belong here, with his abused puppy, nursing me back to so-called health. It wouldn't be right.

I just wished he would come in once, so that I could explain to him that I wasn't holding him accountable—not that he'd care if I was, but I wasn't. I wanted to clear his conscience of any kind of residual guilt left over from his years in a Roman Catholic family. I needed him to know that I knew this was not his doing.

Quite a few people did not see it this way. In fact, quite a few people saw Brian as the main culprit in this whole mess. More than a few articles written about it pegged him as the instigator that caused Chris Hobbs to attack me. After all, he was older, more experienced—in point of fact, he should have known better. He should have known that it simply was not possible for two men to share a dance together in the midst of a normal, healthy, straight student body. He should have known not to kiss me in front of impressionable youths. He should have known that someone was going to bash me in the head as punishment for—how had they put it—_flaunting_ my lifestyle.

Some articles point the finger at me—some at my parents—some at the school. Few—a very few—place blame entirely on Chris Hobbs. Of course, he was responsible for the attack, but that didn't seem to be the story anyone wanted to hear about. Brian and I—our "relationship" or whatever you'd like to call it—seemed like the real scandal. A perverted old fag going after a young, helpless baby-face virgin in American Town, USA was closer to the story the papers were selling. They victimized every one involved except Brian, all poor, powerless pawns in his masterful game of "corrupt the innocent." They'd mention my SAT scores—my plans to attend PIFA—my loving mother—my promising talent—but always neglect to include any mention of my eviction from my father's house or Brian taking me in and driving me to school every morning.

My favorite part of all the stories was when it came time to talk about the prom. All they wrote about was the utter audacity of my villainous corruptor to show up to an event for children and to parade me around like we were some kind of romantic couple. The utter audacity.

I wished I could look him in the eyes and tell him how wrong they were, but he wouldn't come. Maybe he didn't care. He knew the truth. I knew it. Maybe that was all that mattered.


	2. Better

AN: Here's chapter two, from Brian's POV this time, one of the nights he came to see Justin.

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><p>He moved in his sleep. His body thrashed from side to side, and I wondered how the movement didn't wake him up. Usually, he slept pretty soundly; calmly inhaling and exhaling steady breaths, one of those annoying half smiles playing on his quiet lips. Although 'usual,' as a term, was quickly becoming obsolete. Just a week or two ago, his 'usual' sleeping habits consisted of his utterly silent comatose existence. This was better. It wasn't good, but it was better.<p>

"Excuse me?" a tiny person in scrubs approached me on the right. She barely came up to my shoulder. "Can I help you?"

"No," I said.

She sighed. "Are you visiting someone?"

"Yes," I said.

"Well," she said, "Visiting hours are over, so…"

I glanced at her quickly. She had red hair and freckles, which made her look young and lines under her eyes that made her look tired. Inexperienced and exhausted—I could handle this. "I have clearance to be here after hours."

"Really," she said, doubtfully. "Why's that?"

"I'm a very important person," I sighed. "Don't you have some kind of life saving mission to be attending to?"

"Not at the moment," she said. Justin shifted again in his sleep. I narrowed my eyes. The girl next to me looked at him. "You're a friend of Justin's?"

I felt cold when she said his name. After a moment, I turned to her to say, "You could say that."

"He's a great kid," she said, as if she knew. "It really sucks what happened to him, huh?"

I didn't answer, hoping she would take the hint. I just looked back at him sleeping.

She turned her body towards me, leaning up against the glass. "Hey, you're not, by any chance, Brian, are you?"

I just watched him.

"Thought so," she said. "I'm impressed. I was kind of expecting to be underwhelmed. He describes you like a god."

I watched him.

"You know," she said, "He really would like it if you came and saw him."

I shrugged. "I'm right here."

She smiled. "During the day," she clarified, "You know, when he can actually see you."

"No," I said automatically, ready with the words I'd rehearsed in my head countless times. "There's nothing I can do for him. It's better like this."

"There's nothing _I_ can do for him," she said. "Not much the doctors can do. There's nothing his friends can do, nothing his Mom can do," she paused, "Definitely nothing his father can do." She turned her back to him and crossed her arms over her chest. "It's mostly up to him, now. He's gotta push himself to get better. And I'm sure a little encouragement from you would make his day."

"He's doing fine on his own," I countered. "He doesn't need me."

"They told him he'll never be able to draw again," she said, as if I didn't know. As if I hadn't been standing in this exact spot two nights ago when he didn't sleep a minute because he couldn't stop weeping. As if some other overhelpful nurse hadn't been hovering over me then telling me how much better he would feel if I had gone in there and told him, "There, there, Justin. Your hopes and dreams weren't that important to you, were they?"

"I know," I told her.

"And then his dad came in today," she said.

My mouth tensed, but I didn't say anything. Of course. Of course that fucker would take this opportunity to corner his son—he couldn't run away from him, here—he couldn't fight him—all he could do was sit there and hear it all. Fucker.

"Look," the girl said, "I know I don't know him all that well, and I know you even less, but it seems like he really cares about you, and from what he's said, you care about him, too." She turned back around to look at him thrash around. "And he thinks he's never going to see you again."

I shrugged. "It's better if he doesn't."

"Better for you or better for him?" she asked.

"For him," I said. My buzz was starting to wear off, and I wanted a cigarette. I took one last look at Justin's contorted nightmare face and turned to go.

The little redhead followed me. "Where are you going?"

"None of your fucking business," I said as I reached into my pocket for my pack of cigarettes and lighter.

"Hey, don't leave," she said. "I'm sorry if I was rude. I just want what's best for Justin."

"Of course. And how the fuck do you know what's best for him, huh?" I asked, placing a cigarette in between my lips. "You fucking civil servants and your helpful advice. Well, how about you take all your heartfelt concern and stick it up your ass?" I lit the cigarette and dared her to tell me not to smoke it in the hospital—or not to smoke it at all—I raised an eyebrow. Go ahead, bitch, mention cancer to me. Go ahead.

"Well," she said, nodding. "I can see where he gets his pessimistic attitude from."

I inhaled and let the fire fill my lungs, warming my chest and calming me instantly. With two fingers, I took it out so I could exhale and gave her a mock salute with my lit cigarette before turning on my heels and leaving the building.

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><p>AN: Thanks for reading! Review!<p> 


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